


This Hell You Put Me In

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Crossover, Demon!Sherlock, Demonlock, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a demon, and he's fairly certain that no one knows it. At least, that's how things are until the Winchesters come along. Every step of their case has lead them right to him as the killer, but while Sherlock's definitely not an angel, he's always been on their side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For most of his life, Sherlock Holmes had prided himself on the fact that no one else seemed to realise he was not an ordinary man. It wasn't as if he'd mastered the arts of acting and pretending, but more that people seemed to pass off his every action like it was nothing. He'd been called eccentric, quirky, a freak and even a psychopath, but nobody had ever come close to the truth.

Even when he stood over dead bodies in the morgue of St Barts Hospital, riding crop in hand as he repeatedly struck at the flesh to see what bruises would form there was nobody who thought to question it. Perhaps it had something to do with Molly Hooper's absurd romantic affections, but for the most part it was just  _oh, well that's Sherlock for you_. After all, he was only human, wasn't he?

Or so it'd seemed that was what everybody had thought until he'd made it back to his flat, only to find it had been broken into. He wasn't an idiot, he recognized the signs where things had been moved and moved back, where things had been covered up. and he knew that someone had been in there uninvited.

It only took him ten minutes to remove all the devil's traps in the room.

After he finished he put three nicotine patches on his arm. Three seemed to be the best number for the more problematic cases he faced, and this was one of them. He'd been so excited earlier, had gripped John's shoulders and told him that it had to be Christmas, because that was exactly how it'd felt. He'd said something similar on their very first case together, if he recalled correctly. Doctor Watson. The idiot - and he meant that as affectionately as he could - who called him brilliant and fantastic instead of telling him to piss off like most humans did, who had become his flatmate and who'd come with him to the nearest crime scene, and wasn't entirely stupid. Sherlock was kind of glad to have him in his life, although he knew he'd never admit that aloud.

Now he was only feeling irritated, and a little bit annoyed. After so long of remaining normal someone had finally managed to figure him out. He admired the intelligence of whoever had done it, but that didn't stop him from wishing they'd been shot in the face. Of course there were times when he felt the urge to do something  _more_ , but he could control those desires. He was a strong man - stronger than most- and he wasn't afraid to say it, because if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was not, it was a murderer. He might have killed before and he might have gotten a kick out of it, might have _liked_  it, but it was never for unjust reasons. It was never simply to fuel the burning need to cause destruction, to create havoc and to  _do things_  that resided within him. There were other ways to sustain those needs; solving crimes*, drugs and experiments and guns, and simply being clever enough to frustrate people. Being like the others wasn't something that Sherlock wanted, and it wasn't something he was counting on becoming. His only problem was having enough fun to remain relatively sane.

*instead of commiting them, that is

He sighed and laid down, wondering where John was and when he'd get back. He needed a pen but he wasn't sure he could be bothered to get one for himself - it was a lot of effort after all - so he thought about the case instead.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John asked as he entered the flat.

"What?"

He rolled over onto his side to face John, no longer complacent with the sights the ceiling had to offer.

John picked up some paper lying on the coffee table, looked at it, seemed satisfied with what he'd found, and then put it down again. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," Sherlock said dryly. "You may have heard of it before."

"Oh, how- have you been  _cleaning?_ "

It wasn't exactly a secret that Sherlock didn't care for tidying up after himself, the place was a mess despite John and Mrs Hudson's combined efforts (which happened even though she was determined to constantly remind them that she was not their housekeeper) but,  _still_. They'd only known each other for a few months and he was picking up on the smallest - and probably most trivial - of things. It wasn't like the hunters had done some spring renovating while they were setting traps for him like he was some kind of mouse, was it?

"No. Two men were in here, from overseas. America perhaps. They moved some things and then left."

John looked at him skeptically and shifted his feet slightly.

"And you didn't think that was  _odd_  at all?"

Sherlock rolled onto his back again and huffed as if he couldn't quite believe he was serious.

"Oh, do calm down, John. They weren't thieves and they weren't after you, believe me."

John sat down, and Sherlock noted that the psychosomatic pain he had in his leg seemed to be getting much better these days, even if he was a little uneasy at times.

"How do you know that then, Sherlock?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking for a moment. The truth or a lie? "Because I know them, obviously."

It wasn't exactly true, he didn't know their names or their faces, but he knew what they were. They were hunters, and from the looks of things they wanted to kill him (or at least send him back to hell where he'd come from). Unsurprisingly, he wasn't too worried about that, just a bit frustrated with things. He knew that they'd be coming back later on, soon even, and that they probably thought they had him cornered. Sherlock only had to be prepared. He just hoped he wouldn't have to resort to killing them, because that would mean a whole lot of mess he knew would be unpleasant to sort out. The thing was, he liked hunters- they killed monsters and he did just that to the monsters that were human. They were both the same, in a way, except for the fact that they were humans fighting supernatural evil in order to save lives, and Sherlock was a supernatural creature against human evil, to save himself from being bored. He noted that neither side ever seemed to receive any gratitude either.

"So, let me think about this. They know who you are and they decided to break in, move our stuff around while nobody was here and then just leave? That makes sense." John said.

"Yes, well, they're not the most conventional of people." he replied.

"Right." John nodded, but the disbelief on his face betrayed him. "I'll make some tea."

He stood up to walk over to the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped him in his tracks.

"We're out of milk."

John huffed. "Fine. I'll have to go and get some then."

Sherlock smiled as he left, because he knew that John had been trying to hide the fondness in his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one week earlier

"So," Sam said casually, dropping his phone onto the table. "We've got a case."

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

It's in England."

" _England?_ Dude, you know how much I hate flying. There aren't enough monsters here for you or something? I saw something about a-"

"Wait a minute." Sam cut in.

"Wait a minute for what? C'mon, we don't need to get on a plane, there's probably a djinn or two down the road. Some guy got stabbed a couple of days ago in," Dean paused.

"Illinois? He just got stabbed, Dean; it's not like there was anything weird about it. Hear me out for a second. You remember Arthur, right? Not a hunter, just a regular guy. He saved our lives that time with the, uh, the alp and the mart that gave people nightmares until they went insane."

"Yeah, I remember him. What about it?"

"He called. He lives in England now, said he needs a favour." he explained.

"A favour? Seriously? What kind of favour?"

"Apparently his wife just murdered all their kids and then died an hour later. He's not exactly sure, but he thinks there's something supernatural about it."

"Or she was just freaking crazy," Dean muttered.

"Okay, aside from the fact that she stabbed their eyes out with a fork and then tried to slit their throats with an eating knife she was a perfectly normal person before that. According to Arthur she was sobbing right up until she died about how she hadn't wanted to do it. I don't know; I mean it could be a curse or demon possession. We could at least check it out, right? We do kind of owe him, I think." Sam said.

Dean sighed and rolled over on his bed.

"He saved us _once_  from some elves who got all their power from magical hats and stopped once we invited them over for coffee the next morning. I'd hardly say we owe him." he said, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"If I remember correctly you didn't even-" Sam started.

"Yeah, whatever. We'll go. Just don't blame me when I throw up all over you on the way there."

"Fine. I'll tell him we're coming then."


	3. Chapter 3

One thing that Sherlock realised that other demons didn't was that you could live dangerously without being dangerous to everyone else. Of course, the fact that he had come to this conclusion wasn't evident to any person but himself, which was why he was currently listening to the sound of a lock being picked. He was rather calm considering the predicament he was in, and simply sat and waited for them to make their grand entrance.

The grand entrance never came, and instead there was only some muffled discussion that could barely be heard through the quiet of the flat. If they had been planning on storming in with weapons at the ready they certainly weren't going to do it now.

"Nice of you men to drop in," he said, calling out across the room.

For a moment nobody said anything, and it seemed as if they'd been stunned in to a momentary silence.

"It's nice of you to welcome us."

There was the sound of somebody being hit sharply; a hissed  _what?_  from the man who'd replied.

Sherlock smiled as they walked into the room. "It's rather unfortunate, but I removed all of the little traps you put out."

He tried his best not to let that smile falter once he recognized who they were, and his mouth only quirked ever so slightly at the corner.

He'd heard the stories just as every other demon had, and that was all they'd been at the time; bedtime tales of Hell's own making, designed to induce both hope and fear. When Sherlock first heard them they were of boys that had only recently been born, based on plans and prophecy and the word of God, as if demons even knew what that was. The stories told of two brothers, mainly of the youngest, who would open the gates of Hell; who would set Lucifer free from the cage. He hadn't heard any more because he left soon after that, and Sherlock hadn't ever really believed in the stories either.

But there was no mistaking this, Sam and Dean Winchester were stood before him.

Sherlock knew that the gates of hell had opened, and that the apocalypse had arrived and that Lucifer had been set free - he wasn't an idiot. He also knew that all of those mistakes had been amended, and probably by the boys who caused it. Aside from all the good things he'd been informed the brothers would do for Hell, they were also supposedly the best and most fearsome hunters he'd ever meet. He was still sitting in his armchair, and if anyone else were in his situation they'd probably feel powerless even for a brief moment, but Sherlock remained stoic.

"You son of a bitch," Dean, the shorter but clearly elder of the two swore.

" _Dean._ " Sam scolded.

"Sam, he's j-"

"Did you really hope that I wouldn't notice?" he asked, tilting his head slightly in question. "I'm not stupid, boys. I know when my flat's been broken into,  _especially_  when the perpetrators are two hunters set on putting my head on a plate."

He stood up to level with them and smiled again, this time sincerely. From the way they bickered with each other like an old married couple they didn't seem very frightening at all, and not very dangerous at that.

Sam opened his mouth to say something that he'd most likely regret, but stopped when they all heard the sound of the front door opening. The door creaked slightly then shut again, and there was a few seconds of silence that was quickly stopped by the sound of echoing footsteps.

It seemed that John had chosen that opportune moment to return with the milk.

He managed to walk into the kitchen and put the milk away in a safe place - far from the bag of cat blood that was threatening to spill everywhere - and walk back into the room before noticing that anything was amiss.

"Wait a minute, what's going on here?" he asked.

Nobody said anything, so John took it upon himself to keep talking. "Are these the men you were telling me about? The ones who broke in? Because I-"

"I'm guessing he's a friend of yours?" Dean cut in, gesturing to Sherlock. "Well he's not your friend. He's a  _demon._ "

It was all very well and good that they'd figured it out, but Sherlock figured that there was no need to announce it to the whole  _world_. Professionalism was clearly going out of trend in the hunting business and it appeared that they were all just desperate to kill whatever they could get their hands on.

Sam gave his brother a tremendous glare then turned to John. "Sorry about him, he just hates flying and he's been rude ever since we got here. You should probably just ignore whatever he tells you, right Dean?"

Dean, looking very annoyed with things, nodded his head.

"I have to admit, your observation skills really are quite fantastic." Sherlock said boredly.

John looked at the three of them incredulously.

"What do you mean, he's a  _demon?_  I don't even know what either of you are doing here, just get out," he said.

Sam made a move to put his hand on John's shoulder but he flinched, so his arm fell to his side again. "John, I think you should leave for a bit. We've got some business to deal with Sherlock."

"Yeah, like exorcism business," Dean cut in.

Sam muttered a shut up to Dean under his breath.

"Exorcis-" John broke out into a pained laugh. "Come on now, just get out of here. Leave Sherlock alone, alright?"

He moved towards the door as if to open it for them and show them out, but Sherlock stood in his path.

"No, John. They're right."

John started to protest but Sherlock blinked, and when he opened his eyes again they were completely black, like the ink of his pupils had accidentally been spilt everywhere else. He hadn't wanted it to come to this - nobody was ever supposed to know that he was anything other than human - but there wasn't any avoiding it; John had to know. They were friends, after all, and while he trusted him a great deal he constantly feared losing him. As cold hearted as Sherlock seemed there were a few people he cared about, and nobody in his position would want those people coming at them with pitchforks in the dead of night.

"Holy shit." John said, finally finding the use of his voice.

Sherlock smiled. "On the contrary, actually."

John stumbled backwards without looking, his eyes wide and startled.

"Wh-what are you?"

"Oh come on now, John. Didn't you hear? I'm a demon." Sherlock said, his own eyes still dark and shadowed.

"No- I mean, no- y-you can't... I," John said, reduced to a stutter.

"Breathe for a minute, will you? This doesn't make me any different; I'm still Sherlock Holmes, still the man you've always known." he implored.

"No, you're- this is a really funny joke, Sherlock, I'll hand you that. Just, please-" John stopped talking abruptly.

"This isn't funny in the slightest," Sherlock said, blinking back his blackened eyes to appear normal again.

"No. I just...  _no._  This can't be, I mean," John paused, taking a deep breath. "You can't be serious about this, Sherlock. Stop being stupid."

"You're asking me to stop being  _stupid?_  Why would I lie to you about something like this, John? Do be reasonable."

Sherlock took a cautious step towards him, his hands raised to show that he didn't mean any harm, but John laughed again to hide his fear, and stumbled out of reach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam move, probably finally taking the initiative to intervene. Before he could move any further he was flung across the room and he slammed against the wall.

(Sherlock only hopped that Mrs Hudson would pass off the noise as one of his experiments and not come up to investigate).

"Don't worry, John. He'll be fine. Maybe a little bruising, but nothing all that critical." Sherlock said.

John looked over to where Sam lay, blocked slightly by Dean, a bit crumpled but definitely alive, and for the first time he seemed completely and utterly terrified of Sherlock and what he was. He stepped backwards, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's face as he fumbled for the door handle.

"I have to go," he said.

The door slammed shut, and the noise reverberated throughout the flat. If Sherlock sighed defeatedly it wasn't loud enough for anyone to hear it.

Sam and Dean were standing again, and the scowl on Dean's face had intensified. From what Sherlock could see, nothing so far gone to plan for the two brothers, and they had absolutely no idea what to do next.

"So," he said idly. "How do you Winchesters plan to trap me now?"


	4. Chapter 4

John had given him the poster as a joke. He'd bought it soon after he'd discovered that Sherlock didn't know (or care) that the Earth revolved around the sun and he'd put it up to humour him. Sherlock had barely looked at the thing since, let alone touched it, and he'd had no plans to do so in the future.

It was just his luck that he was currently stood underneath a Devil's Trap on the ceiling, right where the diagram of the solar system had been. He was losing it, he decided. Despite his disinterest in the planets it didn't mean he was supposed to ignore details that important. Sam and Dean looked smug, and perhaps a little surprised. They probably hadn't known whether it was still going to be under there or not and just took their chances when they pulled it down with a flourish.

"Well, isn't this going to be fun?" he asked.

Dean pulled a knife out of his pocket that glinted in the light with sharp, cruel edges. "Just peachy."

* * *

Sherlock knew that the tables had turned - he was tied up in his own home after all - but he also knew that he wasn't going to give up too easily. After all, he wasn't sure what he had even done wrong in the first place, and he could make the two idiotic Winchesters see that.

"What made you do it then?" Sam asked, splashing his face with holy water.

Sherlock tried not to make a noise and cry out as it as it burned his flesh and scorched his skin, he could bear the pain without letting it be known.

"Do what?" he asked through gritted teeth as he was drenched in more holy water.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. Those people you possessed, all the people you made them kill."

"I-" he was about to say more, but Dean was pouring so much salt down his throat that he could barely breathe. It was followed by bouts of holy water that set his lungs on fire, and he choked and spluttered, trying to regain control of the situation.

"I'm not sure what you think you're talking about. The only body I have ever possessed is this one." he insisted.

Dean sighed like he was dealing with a petulant child.

"You see this knife?" he asked, holding the blade dangerously close to Sherlock's face. "It can actually hurt you."

He smiled. "How lovely."

Sherlock wasn't sure where they'd got the idea that he was some kind of psychopathic serial killer from (admittedly that was the way most demons acted, but then again he wasn't most demons) but it seemed the idea had stuck. Any minute soon and they'd be performing an exorcism. He didn't think he'd be able to stand going back to hell. It was... well, hell to put it eloquently. Dean had already started cutting, and Sherlock grunted, trying not to show how much pain he was in. Dean sliced and tore and cut at his skin as if he had years of experience, careful not to kill him immediately. Instead of Hell or even death, Sherlock was in excruciating torture, each press of the blade searing hot. Dean worked, muttering and asking him things that had long since blurred into white noise, and there appeared to be the hint of a grin on his face.

"Isn't it interesting how close you came, Dean Winchester? How close you came to becoming just like me? The righteous man, torturing countless souls and enjoying it. Your own soul was almost there, almost smoke and ashes before you got pulled out of the pit. I can figure these things out, you know."

Dean froze and looked at him in fear or horror or shock, or perhaps all three at once.

Sherlock had to give him credit for how quickly he composed himself. "Everybody knows that. Sam, just start the exorcism."

Of course that sort of thing would be common knowledge. Everybody knew the Winchesters' story, and how was he meant to explain that he barely knew anything about their lives? He didn't get email updates on how they were doing or the Winchester magazine subscription sent to his door every month, and he didn't exactly have any demon friends to tell him about the two brothers either. He had to think of something that wouldn't be obvious, and quickly.

"Ah, but would everyone know that you're an artist trying your utmost hardest to hide it? Possibly it's because you just want to look clean and presentable, but it's probably because it goes against everything your father ever taught you about what it means to be a real man, and you're terrified of that prospect."

"Sammy? How did he- I mean, demons, they're not supposed to-"

Dean looked startled, his face drained of colour and the knife held only loosely in his hand.

"What makes you think they're supernatural abilities? Can't I just be clever?" Sherlock paused, making sure that they were listening. "I didn't possess or kill anyone, but I can assure you that if you give me the benefit of the doubt and let me go, I'll help you find the demon who did. Obviously I'm rather perceptive. You'll need someone like me if you ever want to catch the real perpetrator."

"And why should we believe you? Why should we even trust you?" Sam asked.

Dean scoffed.

"Yeah, we all know how trusting a demon went for us last time." he muttered under his breath.

He inclined his head. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Haven't you heard of me? I'm the world's only consulting detective. If there's anyone who can catch a criminal it's me."

"Wait a minute," Dean said. "You help the law?"

"Don't you boys ever do a thing called research? I'd have thought you'd look me up before trying to kill me. But yes, if you want to put it that way, I help the law. It's what I do to stop myself from getting bored."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, then seemed to reach some kind of conclusion.

"Where's your proof? How are we supposed to know whether anything you say is true or not?" Sam asked.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and tried to think of something that would cause them to trust him.

"Call Lestrade. He works over at Scotland Yard - that's the police. Ask him if he thinks I'm a crazy murderer or not, I'm sure you'll find his answers very helpful. Talk to Mrs Hudson, or even try and find John and see if you can talk to him. Ask my brother if you really want. He works for the government; I think I'd be in-"

"Is he actually your brother, or does he just happen to be your meat suit's brother?" Dean asked.

"Of course Mycroft's not my real brother," he said. "Oh, don't be like that. This body was an eight year old boy in a coma when I first got it, it wasn't as if it was someone with a life ahead of them."

Dean and Sam didn't seem to be about to say anything, so he continued to talk.

"When did these murders happen, anyway? Because I can guarantee you that the past few days I've been working on a case without stopping so much as to breathe. Lestrade can tell you that too."

Sam looked annoyed. "Why didn't you tell us that before?"

"It was a little hard to talk with salt down my throat. I had to think fast."

"Where can I find the guy?" Dean asked, and Sherlock was a little more relieved to notice that he'd put the knife back in his pocket.

He rattled off an address. "Are you going to untie me now?"

Dean looked at him, assessing the situation.

"No, we're not." he turned to Sam. "If the son of a bitch tries anything at all just send him straight back to where he came from, okay?"

Sam nodded, and Dean looked at Sherlock one last time before heading for the door.

"So," Sam said after a while of sitting in silence. "How did you know? About the artist thing, I mean? Dean's never told anyone that before."

Sherlock shifted a little in his chair, his skin almost fully healed from the acidic burn of the salt and holy water. His wounds were mostly healed too, and the only thing making him uncomfortable were the bonds that were tying him to his chair.

"It was quite simple, really. There were hints of paint under his nails but the skin around them had been scrubbed red raw. There was also a streak of paint in his hair but it was only visible at a slight angle when his head was tipped down. So, he'd been painting something recently. It wasn't a great deal of paint, and it wasn't all one colour, so obviously he'd been painting something small and detailed. His clothes had a few small patches of what seemed to be acrylic paint stains but they were faded, so clearly the painting wasn't a one time thing. That then leads to the conclusion that Dean is some sort of artist, or at least attempting to be one."

Sam appeared impressed.

"What about our dad though? How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes like he couldn't believe it wasn't glaringly obvious.

"Like I said, he's been trying to hide it, but the question is why? It's likely that he wants and needs to look presentable in your line of work, but there's something more probable to consider. You've seen your brother, he seems to be the perfect archetype of masculinity, but I suppose it was the jacket that ended up giving it away. It's old and well worn - someone must have given it to him after they'd had it for a while. Now who would be able to do that and instil those kind of views upon someone? A father would. Art doesn't exactly conform to the ideas of what a real man is supposed to do, and anything that pushes those boundaries would seem like an embarrassment to a person like Dean," he explained.

Sam nodded dumbfoundedly. "Right. Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam turned to the sound at the door. "Dean? Is that you?"

"It isn't Dean." Sherlock said simply.

"How would you even-"

"Hello, John."

John smiled weakly from where he stood, then looked at Sherlock properly and seemed to realise the situation.

"What have you  _done_  to him?" he asked Sam.

Sherlock looked down at himself. "Oh, yes. It's nothing, don't worry."

It hadn't  _been_  nothing, but John didn't need to know that and there wasn't much left to show for it in the first place.

"Well it certainly doesn't look like nothing to me!"

"It was just a misunderstanding, nothing more. Besides, I didn't think you cared all that much."

He knew what he'd said was petty, and that there was no real need to have said it, but Sherlock had said it anyway because he was selfish and rude and nothing at all that John deserved in a friend. John sighed and step closer, ignoring Sam in favour of scanning him over in search of possible wounds. When he found none, he looked up to speak.

"Of course I care, Sherlock. You're my friend. I was just," he paused, probably taking the time to find the right way to put his thoughts together into words that didn't sound like  _please don't kill me oh my god_  or  _I'm currently having a minor meltdown_. "I was just shocked. It was unexpected and that made me think irrationally. I- I thought about it and I know that you're still the same man and haven't changed. I know that you're still you. If you're a demon or whatever it is that you are, it doesn't matter. Not to me."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a moment. He hadn't thought- hadn't known whether John would still want to have anything to do with him, but he  _did_ , and more importantly he didn't care that he wasn't anything remotely close to human.

"That, uh- that thing you just- thank you, John."

John smiled at him, and Sherlock knew it was most likely because he rarely heard him saying thank you or anything to do with gratitude, but he'd managed it for him on this occasion.

"What exactly have you done to him?" he asked, repeating his previous question as he turned to Sam.

Sam, who had been watching the whole exchange with great interest, took a moment to realise that John had been speaking to him.

"He's fine, I swear. We were just taking some necessary precautions." he explained.

John tugged at one of the chains tied round Sherlock's wrist and he hissed as the small but indelicate movement burned his skin with scalding heat. "Are those precautions still necessary now?"

"Well, no, probably not" Sam said hesitantly, "but it's best to be on the safe side. You know, just in case."

John looked at him disbelievingly.

"In case of  _what?_ "

"I am still here, by the way." Sherlock said dryly.

It was rather amusing the way people were taking to having conversations about him as if he wasn't in the room listening to their every word, but amusing things almost always start to get annoying after a while.

"In case of anything! He could try to kill us all, couldn't he?" Sam said, gesturing wildly.

"I don't think-" Sherlock started.

John interrupted him. "Look, I know him, and he's not going to do something like that. Besides, you said he probably  _won't_  do anything; you must have come to that conclusion somehow."

Sherlock had thought that if John did come back he'd punch him in the face and demand answers, but instead he was defending his honour like a ridiculous (and unnecessary) knight in shining armour. Sherlock decided that he was probably saving the abuse for later.

Sam sighed and stood up.

"You're right, I guess. He was pretty convincing about his innocence while we were," he paused, perhaps not wanting to seem insensitive in what he was about to say, "questioning him. My brother's gone to see Lestrade to see if there's any truth to what he's told us."

He turned and addressed Sherlock. "If I untie you and you try anything in the slightest I swear to God I'll send you straight back to Hell. Understood?"

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Crystal clear."

"Well then," Sam said, and got to work on untying him.

Sherlock's skin was red and raw looking from where it had chafed against the chains that had bound him to his chair, but other than that he appeared moderately unscathed, as if the previous torturous events could have been a figment of his imagination.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" John asked worriedly, looking at one of the angry lines that marked his skin.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's alright, they'll heal over soon enough."

"If you say so," John said, but he sounded sceptical.

Sam hadn't said anything else since he'd untied Sherlock, and was sat in one of the chairs looking slightly bored and restless as he looked across the street through one of one of the windows. Until his brother returned there wasn't much he could do, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He still hadn't sat down since he'd been allowed the liberty of moving around, but he was an immensely lazy person nonetheless and felt very close to just lying down and not speaking at all for a few hours (or days if he could get away with it). Of course, knowing the way his luck was going that opportunity was probably going to be long coming.

"I spoke to- Sam? Why is Sherlock," Dean, who had just arrived back and walked into the room, waved his hands around as if it would aid his description, "moving?"

"He wasn't exactly posing much of a threat to anyone." Sam said.

"How would you  _know?_  I could be about to tell you that he lied to us and that he's actually a serial killer who keeps pickled eyes in his fridge!"

"That's true, in fact. Well- not the serial killer part of course, but there are some eyeballs in the fridge. Some thumbs too, I think." Sherlock interjected.

Both Sam and Dean turned to look at the fridge in question incredulously.

"He's right, you know. Not just in the fridge or the freezer, but other places too. There's a skull over there on the mantelpiece. Once he left a bloody arm on the table to see how long it would take to decompose at room temperature and the whole flat stunk of rotting flesh for-" John stopped abruptly. "This probably isn't helping very much, is it?"

"See what I mean? He's crazy!" Dean exclaimed.

"Okay, Dean, I get it, but all of that's irrelevant compared to what you  _are_  about to say to me. What did Lestrade tell you?"

Dean huffed exasperatedly and dropped into an unoccupied chair, leaving Sherlock and John still standing.

"Basically, Lestrade's known Sherlock for years and apparently he's always been kind of strange and frustratingly annoying to everyone he works with, but he helps solve loads of crimes and he's a pretty great man. According to him they've been working on a case recently that they've almost solved, and Sherlock's done the majority of the work. The guy was shocked when I suggested that he was the one committing the crimes in the first place and said that even though Sherlock's a little eccentric he's definitely not some sort of killer."

"Well there you go," Sam said.

Dean looked appalled.

"There you go? What if I'd been told otherwise? What if you'd untied him and he'd killed you? You could have gotten  _killed_ , Sam. I still don't trust him now, and I definitely wouldn't have trusted him in your position."

"Look, boys, I understand why you don't want to trust me. I'm a  _demon_ , but I do have an alibi and the word of people who have trusted me for a long time. You need to just-"

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of Dean's phone ringing loudly, and came to the conclusion that he was never going to be able to get a word in edgeways.

"Yes?" Dean answered, an annoyed tone to his voice.

As he listened the expression on his face changed and he softened slightly.

"Alright, thanks. I'll get back to you if we find out anything else."

They all looked at him expectantly, except for Sherlock who looked very, very bored with the situation. Dean sighed and slid his phone back into his pocket.

"There's been another one. A lot of vics too, it was out in public somewhere, not sure on the exact details yet."

John looked at Sherlock at the same moment Sherlock looked at John.

"You know what this means, right?" John asked.

"I was here the whole time. I couldn't  _possibly_  have committed the crime."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile.

"I suppose that's right," Dean said begrudgingly.

Sam nodded. "If he was here then he couldn't have been there as well. We must have the wrong demon."

"That," John said, trying desperately to stifle a laugh, "is great logic."

"Thanks." Sam said sarcastically.

Sherlock sat down. "I presume that the question we're all wondering now is who really is behind all of this."

"Well we're going to have to find out, aren't we?" Dean asked.

"I think that much is clear." Sherlock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes or do something else that would be deemed extremely childish.

"Are you two going to help us, then? I'm pretty sure you swore that you would, Sherlock." Sam said.

Sherlock was about to retort and say that he was under interrogation and would have said anything, but John spoke first.

"Of course we're going to help you," he paused. "Right, Sherlock?"

And Sherlock, because he was feeling very stupid, nodded.

"Yes, I suppose we will. Just don't threaten to exorcise me again and I'm sure you'll both find me quite cooperative."

"I don't think-" Dean started.

Sam glared at his brother then turned to Sherlock. "We'll try and keep that in mind, then."

"Sam, I'm just saying that maybe we shouldn't be-"

" _Shut up_ , Dean. If he turns out not to be trustworthy then we can kill him, but in the meantime we need help and he's offering, right?" Sam hissed.

"Right," Dean said after a while. "You're right about this, I'll give you that, but I swear to God if he makes one wrong move I'm going to slit his damn throat."

Sam shrugged. "Fine by me."

"You know, it's like we're not even  _here_." John said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "No matter how quietly you try to whisper we're still able to hear the conversation you're having."

Dean pointedly ignored their comments and stood up. "We'd better get started then."

"What, right now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, _now_. We've got to find out more about the deaths that just happened, see if we can get any clues. Aren't you meant to be some great almighty detective? Start acting like one."

"Alright then," he said exasperatedly. "Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade and a few others were already there when they arrived. Although Sherlock didn't know exactly what Dean had talked to the detective inspector about when he'd asked him about Sherlock the man seemed to be accepting the two brothers with ease. Everything was clearly all new territory for the Winchesters - they were in England, not America, and they could no longer rely on forged FBI badges to help them get things done - but they appeared to be managing to handle themselves well enough.

"So, what's the deal, Lestrade?" Sam asked when they found him.

"A  _little boy_  came in with a gun and opened fire. Shot everyone dead almost instantly." Lestrade replied.

Dean looked confused. "Wait a minute, are you telling me a kid did all of this?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm as baffled about it as you are. There were twenty four people in there when he walked in, and only three managed to walk out alive."

"Where's the boy?" Sherlock asked.

"Over there," Lestrade said, pointing off somewhere into the distance. "We haven't managed to identify him or his parents as of yet, and he hasn't said very much. We didn't really know what to do with him. "

Sherlock scoffed derisively. "Just because he's young and small it doesn't mean that he's not in any way dangerous."

"Well it's not like we left the gun with him! We didn't just think  _oh, he's cute, let's let him carry on shooting things_ , did we?"

"I don't know, did you?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock saved him the liberty of saying something ridiculous by walking off in the direction of the boy before he managed to get a word out.

John followed him but didn't say anything until they were safely out of earshot.

"Do you really think they're going to trust you?" he asked. "Sam and Dean, I mean."

Sherlock considered the question for a moment as they walked.

"No, not really. But they'll need me, so they're going to keep me alive no matter what they think of me or what I am. They might kill me afterwards, but I doubt they will. It's likely they'll trust me enough once I've proved myself to keep me as an ally, even if they are still wary of me."

"Are you sure about that?" John's voice was full of skepticism that he was doing nothing to hide.

Sherlock nodded. "Now let's go and talk to this boy."

They found him within a couple of minutes, and discovered that he appeared to be only six years old. He had his head buried in his hands and was shaking with sobs, his body wracking with tremors as he wailed in a rather annoying kind of despair that grated on Sherlock's ears. He wasn't handcuffed - probably because there were no handcuffs small enough to fit him - but there were a couple of officers standing around him acting as stationary guards.

"Hello," John said to the boy with a cautious softness.

"Oh, don't be nice, John. He just killed twenty one people, I hardly think it's the time to be comforting him."

John glared at him.

"Could we have a moment to talk to him?" Sherlock asked one of the officers.

They both looked at each other for a moment before coming to an agreement. The one he'd asked nodded slightly, and they looked at the boy one last time before walking off a short distance away so that they could still observe what was happening.

The little boy stopped shaking slightly and lifted his head. His eyes were closed and his cheeks were stained with the tracks of his tears, and the whole thing managed to make him look nothing like the idea of a stereotypical mass murderer. In fact, he looked like an innocent and (Sherlock supposed that this was what ordinary people would think, if he was one of them) quite adorable victim. Appearances could be deceiving, though, and there was no knowing what sort of things were going on in the boy's mind until Sherlock found out. The boy opened his brown eyes, which were brimming with yet more tears that were threatening to spill over, and blinked rapidly as he tried to stop himself from crying in front of them.

"I- I didn't mean to do it!" he wailed, "I didn't want to, I didn't-"

He stopped mid sentence and started to cry again, messily and noisily.

Sherlock crouched down to his level and reached out a hand to reassure him, then quickly drew it back again. "Look, just tell me what you did. Tell me what happened."

"I don't know why-" he started, and then cut off abruptly.

"You don't know why what? Come on,  _talk_  to me." Sherlock urged.

"My  _eyes._ " the boy groaned.

"What about your eyes? What's the matter with them?"

He rubbed his eyes. "They hurt so much, mister, I don't think-"

He blinked again in quick succession, and then when he fully opened his eyes again his pupils seemed to seep out like ink until his eyes were completely black.

"Oh no," the child said quietly.

He rubbed at his eyes profusely again, and then screamed in agony as his eyes flew open and were filled with a bright, blinding white light that would have made anyone want to shield their vision against it. He started to blink repeatedly once again, and each time Sherlock caught a flash of his eyes they were a different colour. They alternated between black and white at an astonishing speed until suddenly they stopped at black, and the boy made a small noise that was almost a whimper before keeling over.

John picked up his wrist and pressed his fingers over the boy's pulse point.

"He's dead." John said with a shocked finality.

"I suspected as much," Sherlock replied.

Dean had filled him in on how the other murders had gone; how people had gone crazy and killed numerous people before dying shortly afterwards. He'd also said that from what they knew the people regretted it immediately after the crimes were committed. Sherlock wasn't sure why Lestrade hadn't told him about any of these crimes beforehand, it was a potential case after all, but he supposed that Lestrade had thought he was too wrapped in the case he'd been solving then (and was still supposed to be solving) to take on another. He'd have to put all his focus on the new case though, there was no time to be catching a human when his life depended on catching a demon. Everything about it was rather exciting too, much more so than the case he was going to abandon. He was sure that Lestrade was smart enough to figure it out with what Sherlock had already deduced anyway, he wasn't really needed any longer.

Sherlock had known that the boy was going to die, which was why he'd been so desperate to make him talk. Despite how strongly he'd urged him to say something, he hadn't managed to tell him anything remotely useful. He might have shown him something useful in his eyes, though Sherlock would have to think about what it meant before coming to any definitive conclusion.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, suddenly appearing over John's shoulder with almost impeccable stealth.

"He was talking and then he just-" John faltered. "He's dead."

The officers who had been watching the boy seemed to have just noticed that something was wrong. Sherlock and John's bodies had probably been shielding their view of him, but they would have still been able to hear the vague sobs he'd made and the murmur of his words. Clearly he wasn't making any sound any more. Sherlock turned and saw that they were looking in their direction with worried expressions, and realised that they were about to come over to see what was going on.

He sighed. "John, you stay here. Explain what happened. I need to talk to Dean."

John looked annoyed but didn't say anything about it, so Sherlock stood up and followed Dean over to a nearby bench. He trusted John to give them a simpler, less  _strange_  sounding version of the events.

"What exactly  _did_  happen then?" Dean asked, neither of them willing to actually sit down.

"I tried to ask him what happened but he kept crying and saying he hadn't wanted to do it. He wouldn't tell me anything and then he said that his eyes were in pain. They went completely black first, then white, and then they quickly flashed between the two colours until he died."

"Great," he said. "Sounds perfectly normal."

"I shouldn't think that anything in the world that you and your brother live in would be _normal._ "

"Yeah, I guess that's right," Dean admitted.

Sherlock could tell that Dean still didn't really trust him, and felt uncomfortable at having any attempt of a conversation with him. It was only right really, knowing what he was, but Sherlock still found it annoying. True, most people didn't trust him anyway, but that was because they knew the kind of person he was, not because they simply knew he was a person in general (or demon, as it actually was). Dean barely knew him, and Sherlock found it rather stupid for him to be making judgements upon his character so early on.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. I'd better go see what Sam's found out."

"Of course, go ahead. I need to find John anyway." Sherlock said.

Instead of looking for John, who Sherlock was sure would be busy trying to explain how the boy had died, he found Lestrade instead. Someone had to have gotten  _something_  out of the boy before they'd arrived.

"Tell me everything the boy told you."

It took Lestrade a moment to register that Sherlock was there and then another to register what he'd said.

"He said that he couldn't remember anything. Couldn't remember why he did it, how he got the gun or how he even got there. Said he woke up and found himself laying on the floor in an alley with a gun in his hand. Apparently he got up and looked for the closest building with the mind to kill everyone in it."

"And there was nothing else? That was all he told you?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "There was one other thing, though it didn't make very much sense."

"What? What was it?"

"He said that he remembered _salt._  That was it, just salt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just finished copying this all over from fanfiction.net and so from now on there will be updates when I write new chapters (kind of makes sense, really). My name over on fanfiction.net is the same as it is here, undergroundlegends.


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